Him in me

When I see him it seems too good to be true,

Picture perfect, like Dorian Gray, he’ll stay beautiful as long as he’s fed,

These little lies smudged on their lips, painting it the colour of purity,

Radish running red tainted on their words, to chant his spiritual encouragement,

They rise and fall in worship of his existence, as he sheds himself into us,

Though he yearns for me to bow, the collision of my knees to the ground to plaster my being to his praise,

I cannot,

Latch to him and suck what may poison me, bite from the forbidden tree the fruits of good will

So that’s why I am not his muse, his charms do not compel me,

The gloss over their eyes has not pulled me in, I am not sunken within his thoughts,

The creases of his ideas formulating the coexistence of me in the distant future,

His hidden past, a simple fairytale tangled in a horror movie,

As though to have layers of him in me, buried piles of what is his,

And so I ask myself repeatedly in hopes of a different answer,

He loves me, he loves me not,

He wants me, he wants me not,

Yet the consistency of the results tells it all, he needs himself in me,

In the crevasse of my being only constituting of his laws, and though his portrait may not hang on walls,

It’s certainly tattooed to souls


One Comment Add yours

  1. Angel says:

    I love some of the Words in this


    Liked by 1 person

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